


to me who can feel it

by sp4rr0wbird



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Interviews
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 21:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30112053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sp4rr0wbird/pseuds/sp4rr0wbird
Summary: “I want them to be proud of me,” He says, the barest of trembles in his voice. Ji-Woon!“I want them to look at what I create in their honor and feel the love I feel for them.” Please! Help us!“I want them to know that I will never forget them.” SAVE US! JI-WOON!“I want them to…” His voice falters, briefly, “I want them to know how much they meant to me.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	to me who can feel it

**Author's Note:**

> uhhhh how about that new dbd killer. here's a character study while i figure out how i wanna write this bastard.
> 
> content warnings!  
> death by fire, canon-typical violence and brutality, kidnapping, blood and broken bones, ji-woon is a horrible narcissist who does murders and this has more gore in it than i usually do because i'm ~exploring~ and ~practicing~ and ~growing as a writer~ or something like that.
> 
> [find me on tumblr!](https://sp4rr0wbird.tumblr.com/)

It doesn’t feel right being on a stage alone.

Some part of Ji-Woon is still frightfully used to four other bodies around him. The interviewer’s couch makes him feel small, something made for more people to make themselves comfortable on than just one, and the weight of his lithe body sinks into it as he sits back. It doesn’t feel right being on a stage alone. He doesn’t have the familiar warmth of any of them with him anymore, no glimpse of grinning faces and handsome features, no pressure of a companion at either side. He doesn’t even have Yun-Jin with him for this one, and the lack of her presence makes it that much easier for him to feel uneasy. The cameras have been rolling since he sat down. There’s no studio audience. He can see her from here, though, Yun-Jin speaking with the woman about to run the interview; these are the topics we will talk about. These are the topics we will avoid. If you decide you want to discuss NO SPIN, you tread on dangerous ground, and get the answers you’ll expect. It’s stage-talk. All play. The talk show host has a notorious record of hard-hitting interviews, a habit of digging into the deepest and most uncomfortable parts of whatever had happened, and that’s the whole point. To speak to the victim. To understand. It doesn’t feel right being on a stage alone.

Ji-Woon threads his fingers together on his lap and sits back. He’s dressed rather plain for what he’d normally expect of a tv appearance, having forgone his loud and extravagant colors in exchange for a thick white sweater (he gets cold, he’d said, and he’s still feeling a little self conscious about his scarred burns). He still wears a bit of jewelry, having left in his earring, and the bracelet on his wrist was a gift from one of his old friends. It doesn’t feel right being on a stage alone. He feels so strangely cold without the four of them around him, as if he were drifting through it all stripped of all warmth but the burns up and down his arms and hands.

Yun-Jin looks towards him. They meet each other’s gaze, and Ji-Woon gives a slight nod. She sets her jaw. She doesn’t want him to have this kind of interview. She thinks he’s not ready for it. It doesn’t feel right being on a stage without an audience. Ji-Woon had insisted. Mightee One had already given him the approval to bring his solo career into the spotlight, and Yun-Jin was prepared to work with him. It’s time for him to step out again. To show his presence. It doesn’t feel right being on a stage without an audience.

The woman conducting the interview is a late night talk show host. She’s not for news. She’s hardly for entertainment, given her habit of getting under the skin of those she was certain were in the wrong. So many people had been chomping at the bit for the chance to speak with him. So many people had been calling, writing, sending interns, just as soon as he’d been spotted returning to Mightee One’s newly renovated recording studio. Every single person wanted the first choice, first chance. And Ji-Woon had picked this one. Choi Min-Seo. Her reputation precedes her; Ji-Woon can still remember her coverage of scandals in a rival company to Mightee One’s own idol factories. He’d admired her ability to really dig into the guts of it, to clear out the viscera and the pointlessness and find the meat that mattered. He’d told Yun-Jin he wanted the interview when Choi Min-Seo’s offer came through. She’d obliged. It doesn’t feel right being on a stage without an audience. Ji-Woon picks at the fluffy sleeve of his sweater, absently pulling it down over one of his healing burn scars. She’s not late, he’s just early. Out of makeup and wardrobe and waiting because the only condition had been that this was pre-recorded, because they had plans for his true debut. He’s not performing his new song. He’s here to talk about what happened to NO SPIN. Yun-Jin’s warnings aside, it’s all anyone wanted to talk about, and that’s one more reason Ji-Woon picked Choi Min-Seo.

Min-Seo looks towards him where he sits on the too-large plush couch, and Ji-Woon looks back at her, feeling some uncertainty as his fingers dig into his sleeve again. He’d volunteered for this. He’s not afraid of this. It doesn’t feel right being on a stage without an audience. He misses them more fiercely, suddenly, feels himself shrinking under her gaze— the cameras are rolling. All eyes on him. The cameras are rolling. The sound of her heels on the floor is almost distracting as she begins to approach, taking the seat opposite him— a much firmer chair than the plush couch he’s feeling like he’s sinking into. This seat is built for five. He misses it, briefly, the sensation of bodies on either side of him, and Ji-Woon glances briefly towards Yun-Jin and the cameras as everything falls into place.

“Do you want anything before we get started?” Min-Seo’s voice is easygoing. It always is; this is a woman who knows she commands the spotlight, and it grates on him somewhat. She put him in the plush couch made for five and perched herself above him, and it— grates on him. It doesn’t feel right to be on a stage with no audience.

“No,” Ji-Woon replies with a slight shrug, “I’m alright.”

“Alright.” She looks to the camera and Ji-Woon follows her gaze. Yun-Jin’s presence lurks to one side, off amongst the crew. Min-Seo tilts her head up. “Let’s get started, then.”

She clears her throat and adjusts her grip on the papers she’s holding, and Ji-Woon makes himself sit up straighter once again, refusing to let himself wilt under stage lights and Choi’s intense eyes.

“Tonight, I’m here with Hak Ji-Woon, member of the band NO SPIN and, tragically, the only survivor of the fire in the studio at Mightee One seven months ago. He and his producer have graciously agreed to an interview after a long period of silence— Thank you, Ji-Woon, and welcome.” Min-Seo turns her gaze from the camera back to him, and Ji-Woon offers her a smile full of white teeth as he places his hands in his lap.

“Thank you. It’s very kind of you to invite me.” He replies readily. His voice does not shake. He does not look at the cameras even as he feels the eyes on him, feels something in his heart pick up as he curls his fingers against the fabric of his sweater. Ji-Woon wonders if he’s going to start shivering.

“It’s been a long time since you’ve made a public appearance,” Min-Seo shifts forward slightly, showing her interest nonverbally, “How have you been doing in the meantime?”

Ji-Woon’s attention remains on her face, polite and calm, though his attention is on the cameras. He’s met that cameraman before, he thinks, either at another interview or for some silly recording of NO SPIN for a tv show. Good man. Does a good job having an utterly forgettable face but notable enough skill to stick out. Ji-Woon knows he must seem so distant as he digs his teeth into his lower lip; the audience is waiting for him.

“I’ve been doing well, all things considered.” He answers with a slightly breathy noise, lifting one hand to run it through his hair before returning his hands to his lap. He shouldn’t be picking at his sleeves. At the burn scars. The audience is waiting for him. “I spent some time in the hospital after the fire to be treated for shock, smoke inhalation, and some burns.” Ji-Woon gestures without much thought to his arms. “There was some concerns that my voice would have been damaged, but thankfully I made a complete recovery.”

“Would you be willing to talk about that?” Their eyes meet, and Min-Seo’s gaze makes his skin crawl. There’s an intensity there that he can’t decide if he admires or hates, something sharp and searching that lingers. No wonder she’s got her reputation. “About the fire. Most of our viewers--” she gestures broadly to the cameras and Ji-Woon does not look away from her face, “--must surely know what happened, but every story we’ve had in the past has come from your producer and the executives of Mightee One. If you feel able, we would appreciate hearing your point of view, Ji-Woon.”

He pauses here, finally allowing his gaze to pull away from Choi. Practiced. The audience is waiting for him. Ji-Woon exhales slowly, finds Yun-Jin and focuses on the crease in her brow, the brief moment of concern; the camera will catch him doing it. Their eyes will be drawn to the visible way his body shifts, the _pathetic_ look on his face, looking for his producer for _comfort_ in the very first phases of an interview. He hasn’t been seen in public to this degree in seven months. He wants his spotlight back. Yun-Jin nods towards Choi, and Ji-Woon’s response is to sit back a little bit more, adjusting how he’s sitting in order to look back to the interviewer’s sharp eyes and close his fingers around his opposite wrist.

“Yes,” He says. “Yeah, I can talk about it.” Another flicker of his eyes towards Yun-Jin, just briefly. They’ll notice. They always do. “From the beginning?”

“If you like.” Choi replies. Ji-Woon feels vaguely nauseated.

“It was a difficult working day,” He says, and he positions himself in a way that is just the slightest bit more closed off. His audience is waiting for him. “We were halfway through recording our new album. Hard work in a pretty small space, it tests everyone, so we were all a little…” Ji-Woon hesitates here, as if searching for his words. “I don’t want to say we were annoyed with each other, because we never were, but all of us were ready for a break.” He wants his goddamn spotlight back. Who cares? “Yun-Jin put us on lunch so she and the rest of the people in the recording studio could go over what we had finished already and what we’d work on next. It was about an hour and a half, I think, but I was late coming back because I’d gone further than I meant to for lunch. And by that point…” He feels his eyes burning.

“What was the scene like when you arrived?” Choi’s tone of voice is gentle, suggesting encouragement. He clears his throat again.

“The smell was awful,” He says. “Burning plastic. Smoke. People were moving past me and telling me to leave, but I wasn’t thinking, I went inside anyway because I was-- worried about my friends.” He gives a shaky breath, lifting his sleeve to his mouth briefly in a way that his audience will certainly read as a momentary attempt to hide-- pair it with a glance towards Yun-Jin and then back to Choi and he shifts again, steadying himself once more. “They’d stayed and gotten lunch together in the building, so they were back earlier than I was. It was normal for them. And when I got inside the studio-- That’s where the fire had started, they told me later, some faulty wiring from something that had been installed wrong a month beforehand. It could’ve gone at any moment.” He shakes his head. His eyes burn and he can almost smell the stench again, the palpable strength of it enough to feel like a weight on his tongue. And the noise, the shouting and the banging on the door. The building damage had put debris in front of the door. Speakers and pieces of the fucking ceiling and the shouting, the shouting, the _shouting_ \--

Ji-Woon wipes his face. Choi doesn’t say anything. His audience is waiting for him.

“I tried to get to them, but I couldn’t get through. The fire was out of control, and there wasn’t anything I could do but try to pull at everything that had fallen in front of the door until-- until I--” And he falters. Again he makes the hiding gesture, wiping his eyes on the plush sleeve of his sweater, allowing it to drop enough to see the angry, red burn scars up and down his pale arms, just visible on the palms of his hands.

“I’m sorry,” He says with a weak laugh through the tears. “It feels like it happened yesterday.”

“It’s alright.” Choi produces a tissue from one place or another (is he supposed to be paying attention to that?) and Ji-Woon takes it, hiding his face for a moment to blow his nose and wipe his eyes again. “Do you remember what happened after that?”

“No.” His shoulders slump, somewhat, as he drops the tissue below the line of the camera and is careful to make sure his make-up hasn’t been smudged as he wipes his eyes. “One moment I was there trying everything I could think of to get through the door to them, and then after that I was sitting in the back of an ambulance with a first responder trying to get my attention and asking me to speak.” His audience is waiting for him. “I found out in the hospital that I’d been led out by the fire crew. I’m very thankful that they were able to save me, but I also…” Ji-Woon exhales shakily through pursed lips. “I feel terrible that I wasn’t with them.”

That’s a little performance he should be proud of, he thinks. His make-up hasn’t come off on his fingers or on the second tissue Choi handed to him, and it’s only barely smudged under one eye when he puts his hands back down into his lap. The cameras are on him, and Choi’s harsh gaze has softened somewhat-- that surprises him to notice, but he’s not going to lose the opportunity.

“It really was a terrible loss for you-- and for the world, too, to lose NO SPIN so soon. You mentioned you were in the hospital for a time?”

“Yes.” Ji-Woon confirms with a slight tilt of his head, adjusting himself again. “Not very long, a few days. They wanted to make sure that I wasn’t hurt worse than the burns. They were very… bad at the time, but I’ve been told they shouldn’t scar permanently.” He offers a smile through his teary eyes, another flash of perfect white teeth. Choi nods once. He gets the feeling she’s looking to try and change the subject; neither of them want to share the stage for very long, do they? “I lost my voice for a day or so, but nothing was damaged, and I recovered from the worst of it quickly.”

“That’s very good to hear.” Choi smiles. It’s faker than he thought it’d be. “What have you been doing since then, during your recovery? Anything you can talk about?”

“I went home briefly, to Busan. Yun-Jin insisted it would be good for me.” He gives another small laugh. “It was good to be with my dad for a while, and to have privacy. I came back to Seoul after a few weeks.”

“And since then?” His unsatisfactory answer has struck a nerve with Choi, it seems. Ji-Woon gives a small smile, lips pressed together as he looks towards Yun-Jin. Her expression is somewhere between stern and unreadable, the woman clearly alright with letting him continue along this pathway, and he likes the idea of letting Choi squirm on the hook a little bit before he explains anything. After all, this interview’s all about him, she’s just got the fortune of being the first one to speak with him-- why shouldn’t he have a little fun? His expression is apologetic as he looks away from Yun-Jin and back to the interviewer.

“I’m sorry,” He answers, “but I’m not sure I understand what you’re looking for.” It’s hard to not be lightly teasing, his still slightly glassy eyes looking between Choi and Yun-Jin as he manages to keep his smile.

“According to some very watchful gossipers, you’ve been spotted at the Mightee One studios again in the past few months.” The harshness returns to her eyes if not her voice-- he’s taking too much attention from her, he thinks, or taking issue with him playing the fool. His audience is going to love this, aren’t they? “At least a few times. Is there anything on the horizon? Are you working on any new projects you can discuss?”

Yun-Jin’s eyes are on him, but that matters less to him than the knowledge of all the hungry faces looking at him through the cameras. Ji-Woon clears his throat slightly and shifts forward, his smile remaining. The smudge of his eye make-up must look good, and he’s excited to see what these recordings look like. What angles will they have chosen? How perfect does the lighting look at him? Did this white sweater make him stand out enough against the black leather couch? His audience is going to _love_ this.

“There is,” He says, finally, in an admitting tone that suggests he’s answering her quite cautiously even as his practiced smile continues on. Choi smirks, as if the stupid woman thinks she’s _won_ something, and Ji-Woon elaborates before she can speak. He won’t dare give her the chance to interrupt him. “I’ve entered into a new contract with Mightee One to work with them as a solo artist, and my producer and I have been working on a song for the premiere.” He lifts a hand to run through his hair, a nervous gesture; the sleeve drops slightly, showing off his healing burn scars. Smile for the camera. “It’s a memorial,” Ji-Woon explains. “For NO SPIN. We wanted to make something to say goodbye to them properly, and it’s been… a very intense, very emotional experience.”

“Could you tell us more about that?” Choi’s eyes have narrowed slightly, and Ji-Woon shakes his head, going back to picking at his sleeve.

“I would, but my contract says I’m not supposed to talk much about it until we’ve solidified the release. I think I’ve already gotten myself in a little bit of trouble by saying I’ve signed a contract in the first place.” He gives a slightly breathy laugh, looking off to the side to Yun-Jin. The slight smirk on her painted lips tells him he’s made the right call; there’s a glint of smug pride that only he can really identify in her eyes, the evidence enough that this is going to get exactly the kind of interest and publicity for them. Ji-Woon’s attention returns to Choi quickly. His audience is going to love this. His audience is going to _love_ this. “But if you want to have me back after the premiere, I would be happy to visit again.”

Choi’s brows furrow, just briefly. She’s an expert at hiding her thoughts for the cameras, he’ll give her that, and Ji-Woon’s enjoying knowing he’s got the upper hand on the show that isn’t meant to be his.

“That’s very exciting to hear.” Choi says, her tone lightening somewhat in what is clearly intended to be approval, or excitement, or something or other-- something to tell the audience that she feels she’s gotten what she wanted to get out of him. Something to get the rumor mill spinning. Something to get the eyes back on him as he rises from the ashes of NO SPIN. He can hardly wait. “What do you think that the members of NO SPIN would think of you taking on a solo career? Is there anything you would want to say to them?”

Ah.

Isn’t that interesting.

Ji-Woon pauses at that, his teeth digging lightly into his lower lip as he sits back against the couch again, placing his hands on his lap. _Ji-Woon!_ It’s a hard question to answer. He likes to think that they’d approve of it. That they’d encourage him. _Ji-Woon! Ji-Woon Hak! Help us!_ That they’d cheer him on from the sidelines, welcome him and his music with open arms, that those smiling faces and sparkling eyes would be giving interview after interview talking about how terribly they loved him, and how they were so disgustingly proud of him. _SAVE US! JI-WOON!_ Oh, it’s an incredible thought that almost makes his voice catch in his throat, makes his eyes water, makes a warmth suffuse the whole of his body. What could he say about it? What is there to say that hasn’t already been said? _Ji-Woon! Please!_ Honesty, he’s certain, honesty and understanding and-- oh, he knows. They know, too.

“I want them to be proud of me,” He says, the barest of trembles in his voice. _Ji-Woon!  
_ “I want them to look at what I create in their honor and feel the love I feel for them.” _Please! Help us!  
_ “I want them to know that I will never forget them.” _SAVE US! JI-WOON!  
_ “I want them to…” His voice falters, briefly, “I want them to know how much they meant to me.”

The stage lights are making his eyes water. They’re going to make his make-up run more. There are a few teary eyes among the people working here, he notices through the corner of his eye, and that’s a pleasurable feeling. Eyes on him, damp with tears and sympathy, and his skin feels electric. He feels energized, a pounding in his chest making his hands shake and oh, oh, _oh,_ his audience is going to _love_ every single god damned word of this. Choi says something else to him, something that Ji-Woon guesses is some sort of sympathy or understanding, or if it was another question he misses it entirely, staring off screen as he makes to wipe his eyes again. The whole of him is tingling, their voices ringing in his ears, and it is beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

Choi rests a hand on his shoulder and Ji-Woon jolts, digging his nails into his palm to stop the expression of fury from crossing his face--

“It’s been great to have you on our show, Ji-Woon, and we look forward to seeing what comes next for you. Our hearts go out to you in your recovery.”

“Thank you, Min-Seo. That’s very kind of you.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, Ji-Woon Hak, formerly of NO SPIN. Thank you, and good night.”

  
  
  
  


The shipping warehouses are remarkably easy to get into, and even easier to drag a half-conscious body into when it’s dark enough for most people to not be paying attention. 

Tonight’s special guest is… he thinks she’s a fan. She might be a fan. He barely bothers remembering any faces whether or not they’re looking at him in sheer adoration because most of the time they’re worth nothing in the first place. She’s nobody special. She doesn’t matter. What does matter is that he’d heard her voice. An intern? A tourist? He doesn’t care. He’s propped her mostly unconscious body up in a wooden chair he’d brought here earlier before he’d decided who the right tool would be, something sturdy enough to stand up to rough handling and squirming but built in a way that he can get to any part of her body he wants to. Ji-Woon is kneeling next to it, tightening her ankles against the legs of the chair with silk rope. It might be cutting off the circulation in her feet, but he doesn’t find that to be too much of a deterrent.

She’s stirring. Moaning and whimpering. He’d hit her slightly too hard at the back of the head, he thinks, and for a while he’d wondered if she’d be waking up in the first place. After going to all this trouble, he certainly would have been _irritated_ to have to go and pick out another. And her voice is perfect, just perfect, even her whimpers and pained little moans carrying music in their tones— he can’t wait to see what else he can drag out of her. The girl’s fingers twitch as she lifts her head, and Ji-Woon makes for another piece of silk rope, standing from where he had crouched at her feet when the last ropes are tied. She’s bound to the chair by zip ties at the wrists, by ropes at the ankles, and since she’s awake enough to lift her head, he’ll arrange it to make sure she keeps it up; he needs the room to work. She’s probably a fan. Most people are. Reaching forward with one hand, he lifts her head and pushes it back until she bares her throat to him, wrapping the soft, strong fabric around her throat just under her chin and tying her upright to the chair. Her dark eyes look up at him, groggy, drowsy, and confused, and Ji-Woon can’t help but scowl slightly at the lack of adoration in her gaze. Maybe he should’ve drugged her. The bat probably caught her off guard too much. It has simply proven to be just such a terrible pain in the ass to get the sort of drugs he’d prefer for this without too much suspicion from a dealer.

“Ji-Woon?” Her slurred speech reaches his ears and that in itself is simply a delight; she can still speak. She will still be able to scream. Perfect. He’d heard her speaking, heard her sweet and gentle tones carrying through Mightee One’s visitor’s meeting room, and he hadn’t been able to resist. Some girls were simply too easy to follow home. Least of all when they have the audacity to speak in siren’s tones, the alluring dulcet sound already music without him having to put in so much as a twitch of work. This was a gift, he thinks. Good fortune.

“The one and only.” He purrs as he tightens the last silk knot, listening to her gasp as he restricts her breathing just enough. Gentle, he reaches to tilt her head properly in the direction he wants: facing him. “Don’t make any more noises just yet, I’m not finished setting up.”

She doesn’t understand what he means, still too dizzy, still too woozy, but apparently in a situation like this it feels natural to follow his instructions. Ji-Woon leisurely braids the remainders of the silk rope hanging off the back of the chair after the knots he’d tied to it to keep her head up, before finally stepping away to the recording materials set haphazardly on the floor in a semi-circle around the chair. They never have really understood what he’s brought them out for, and he can’t quite fault them for that. Art is subjective to the ear of the viewer, or so those idiot critics would croon to themselves when calling his work too _rough_ , too _sharp_ , too _harsh_ . He’d be happy to show them what harsh to the ear sounds like, knife-first, preferably, but the truth of it remains; people don’t understand. Don’t understand what he’s trying to do, don’t understand him, and he cannot fault them for it. After all, every part of him has been perfectly sculpted to be That What Is Desired, years of his life spent a student at the altar of idols come before. Ji-Woon exists to be That What Is Longed For, a pretty bird in the most glorious gilded cage to be admired and listened to-- Subjectivity. Subjective. They don’t understand what he’s brought them for because they just don’t get it. They don’t understand what _blessing_ they’re going to be part of, don’t know that hundreds of thousands of people will hear them through him, that he will be the gift at the end of their lives that makes them remembered. Makes them known. Yun-Jin would be so proud of him, to know the work he was doing. He’s happy and adored in his gilded cage and the only reason he wants any chance to branch out is to push the limits of his art. _Subjectivity._

Ji-Woon picks up the field recorder and the microphone plugged into it, quick to make sure everything has already been set perfectly in place. He doesn’t want to ruin this, doesn’t want a faulty fucking recording to ruin his evening. It’s come close to happening before, an over-eager shaking hand unplugging the microphone second only to a stupid fucking rag and duct tape muffling the most beautiful voice he’d ever heard through the most intimate recording session he’d ever been through. The position he wants is on the floor just in front of her, because her voice will carry forward, and he would not dare lose such a beautiful instrument to his own stupidity again. Ji-Woon’s picked these places, these wide open, empty spaces, for the sake of catching their voices. He knows better now. He presses the record button almost reverently, just in time to catch the girl’s whimper as she realizes how tightly _bound_ she is.

He curses every day that the records of NO SPIN’s voices had been destroyed. He can’t even be sure they existed, but the entire album they’d had half-recorded to that point had been completely destroyed. The music behind the lyrics had been saved, certainly, undoubtedly to be recycled into a track for The Trickster or else tossed to some other up-and-coming idol group with enough voices to carry the melodies. Ji-Woon curses every day that the recording equipment hadn’t been running when the fire had started. He wants to hear it. Aches, _aches_ to hear their voices. Would they have panicked when they smelled smoke? Would nobody have told them a fire had started, locked in the booth as they were? What were they talking about that the microphones would have heard, would have been etched into recording software to be memorialized? Nothing important. It was so rare that anyone had _anything_ important to say.

With the microphone in place, Ji-Woon kneels again to pick up the bat he’d used to hit her in the back of the head and get her here in the first place, adjusting his grip on it and looking to her. She’s plenty awake now, dark eyes wide in fear and mouth slightly open in a stupid expression of shock. Her head must be throbbing-- he’s not quite good enough at measuring how hard he needs to hit yet.

“Ji-Woon,” She stammers, and his name sounds even prettier than usual on her frightened tongue. “Ji-Woon, what are you-- why--?”

He lifts a finger to his lips, _shhhh_ , and smirks.

“No talking.” He informs her, tone sickeningly sweet. “I want it all to be useful.”

His memorial for NO SPIN wasn’t perfect, he would readily acknowledge that. It held raw emotion, an intensity of his _grief_ that could only be sung, because no word in any language would be enough to convey it. It wasn’t perfect. He said goodbye to them, he said that he loved them, said that he would always miss and remember them, and it has certainly resonated amongst listeners, but now-- But now? It’s not strong enough. It’s weak. He’d poured everything he could into it to mimic the sounds that had had him trembling in the heat of the fire, the glorious crescendo that was NO SPIN screaming his name and shrieking for them to save him, to mimic the cacophony that had truly led him to feel a euphoric joy, a high he wonders if he’ll _ever_ feel again. The melodies fell short. The beats were lacking. His own voice stood out, powerfully close as he _howled_ the pain in his heart that he was expected to feel, but it wasn’t good enough. He would never have their voices on recording to listen to, to incorporate with a delicate touch into his music, would never again know the purity of that bliss. Would never be able to _share_ that bliss. It is _agony._

When he brings the bat down upon the girl’s wrist as hard as he can manage, the piercing shriek that echoes through the warehouse nearly makes his ears ring. He’d been right to assume her voice would be pretty enough as it bounces off the walls and he glances down on reflex to make sure the recording is still going. Ji-Woon swipes his tongue across his lips as her scream melts into a trembling sob-- Why not see if he can get the same sound twice?-- and then twirls the bat once, bringing it down one more time in the same spot. There’s a sharper noise, the crunching of the bones in her wrist as they break under his weapon and a different noise ripping through her throat in a way that makes him think she’s going to scream herself raw before the night is through, and he smiles.

Still holding the bat against her shattered wrist, Ji-Woon reaches up to her face, patting her cheek a few times and pushing her chin up to bare her throat for him again. She gives a wordless cry, a noise somewhere between a whimper and a wail as he moves, the bat still pressing down against the break before it clatters to the floor as he drops it. Lithe fingers press against her throat while his newly free hand digs in his pocket for the knife he’d brought along with him. Not one of his throwing knives tonight, as much as he likes the idea of seeing the neon splattered with blood again, this one’s a thin, small kitchen knife. The big ones cut too deep too quickly, and others had proven too blunt if he picked at random; he’d sharpened this one quite carefully, tucked it away in his penthouse apartment out of view amongst the rest of his recording equipment. Gently, though he knows he has no reason to be, he presses the pointed tip of the blade against her shattered wrist, eyes lingering on the bruised, purple-and-red mess of flesh and the places where shards of bone poked through her skin. Ji-Woon lingers there for a long moment, and then presses it down, feeling the soft cry of pain vibrate under his fingertips and become louder, sharper, more _afraid_ as he drives the knife into the ruined flesh.

It is _electrifying._

The shivers move from his hand down his arm and down his spine, goosebumps across his flesh and an excitement making his heart race as he pulls his hand away from her throat, moving to the tender bruise he’d left on the back of her head with the bat previously to press his fingers down onto it almost delicately. She writhes under his touch, wordless protests that are little more than petrified sobs. Ji-Woon withdraws from her entirely, dragging the knife down her wrist and wrenching it _through_ her hand, earning another howl of pain in the process.

He needs more. He _aches_ for more, more of that beautiful cacophony. The agony and the terror, it is one of the most beautiful things he’s ever heard-- he craves more, _needs_ more. He can already picture the work he’ll put in, the beat and the melody he’ll bury it in. Something thrumming, something sharp, something that those who would listen to his song would feel in their bones the way he does. Ji-Woon begins to hum. It’s so easy to lose himself in this kind of work. It’s comfortable to him, prying his way through tendons and opening the girl’s arm methodically to hear what each little poke and prod gains him. What other artist has such a privilege as this? Such a gift and talent, such an ear for sound? Mightee One should be _grateful_ to have The Trickster under their label. There’s nothing like _him_ on the market, _nothing_ like him on stages anywhere, and he feels pleasure and excitement mixing well in his chest.

“C’mon.” He murmurs, his voice low as he pulls the knife away from her arm, as she trembles before him, blood pouring from her destroyed limb and dripping down the wooden chair, staining the silk ties near her ankles. “Let me hear it again.”

He moves the knife to her shoulder. This is what he’s sharpened it for, though he doesn’t expect it’ll be enough to actually do what he wants to test-- he needs to invest in a bone saw, maybe, see what he can get with a less blunt instrument like his bat-- but when he begins to cut through her flesh the sound of terror starts as a series of desperate pleas for him to stop, escalating sharply into another scream when the tool finally scrapes against bone. He isn’t in a rush, he supposes, and has all the time in the world. Angling the knife, Ji-Woon reaches for his bat with his foot, leaving the knife in her shoulder and reaching down to pick it up, the metallic sound of it against the concrete another set of clattering echoing through the empty warehouse.

“Why?” She gasps her words, far past hysterics and deep into animal terror, not even following his movement with her eyes anymore-- “Why? Ji-Woon, Ji-Woon, why?”

“Why?” He answers her with something of a laugh as he shakes his head, “I am doomed to _creation._ ”

He raises the bat again-- the downward swing earns him the sort of caterwaul he’s going to be thinking about for days.

  
  
  
  


Ji-Woon stirs with a jolt, lifting his head off of the desk and equipment he’d fallen asleep on in response to the sensation of Yun-Jin’s hand between his shoulders. He sits up, sleepily rubbing his eyes as he looks up to her and stifles his yawn.

“Did you sleep here?” Yun-Jin questions, raising a brow at him; she’s not annoyed, but he can tell she’s surprised, and he gives her a lopsided smirk and a slight shrug.

“I was working.” Ji-Woon answers, pulling the headphones around his neck off and offering them to her. “What time is it?”

“Nearly 6. Did you go home last night?” His producer takes the headphones, manicured hands adjusting them briefly to her usual fit.

“No.” He admits, laughing lightly with a sheepish expression. “Like I said, I was working. I think you’ll like this one.” He gestures to the headphones as Yun-Jin puts them on. She crosses her arms over her chest, leaning her hip against the desk and tilting her head towards him in a gesture of expectation. Ji-Woon reaches over to press play.

The melody’s still rough and the beat’s bare-bones, he’ll be the first one to admit that, and he hasn’t decided what verses he’ll pull from his haphazard and sloppy notebook full of messy lyrics to polish into the rest of the song. But he’s proud of this one. Proud of his work, as he always is, and this time feeling downright _smug_ to know it’s worth her time. One of Yun-Jin’s hands presses against the side of her head, and Ji-Woon’s dark eyes fixate on her expression, watching her eyes as she glances towards the visible progress of the track on one of the screens in front of them. Her brows are furrowed slightly, a look on her face that he recognizes as the look she gets when she’s trying to remember something, but it passes relatively quickly as the beat and melody begin to loop again. Yun-Jin takes the headphones off. Her eyes are analytical again, the intensity he likes to see when she’s found a project she considers worth her effort.

“It’s rough,” She says, like he doesn’t already fucking know that, “But it’s good.” Ji-Woon preens. “We can work with this. You’re getting better.”

“Thanks.” His grin grows wider. Sharper, almost. “Always happy to impress.”

“I wouldn’t call it _impressive_ yet.” Yun-Jin’s tone is dryly sarcastic, though she’s smiling at him with her lips pressed into a thin line. “You look like a mess.” Dry sarcasm gives way to firm instructions, and she reaches out to tilt his head up slightly by the chin, patting his cheek as she sets the headphones down amongst the rest of the equipment. “Go home and get some rest, I’ll handle the meetings and see if I can’t polish this up a little more in the meantime. Call me for dinner.”

“Got it.” Ji-Woon stifles another yawn as he stands up, sparing one more glance to the melody on the screen before he gives her a slight nod of his head and offers her the seat. “Show me what you make with it.”

“Of course.” Yun-Jin takes his place, pulling the chair a little closer to the desk, unplugging his recording device for him and handing it back to him. “Goodnight, Ji-Woon.”

“Goodnight, Yun-Jin.”


End file.
